


Through Fields of Green

by lotrfan



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fangorn Forest, First Person Narrative, Friendship, Growing Friendships, Introspection, Plains of Rohan, Three Hunters, Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2018, on the trial of Saruman's Orcs, personal pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-04 04:18:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15833613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrfan/pseuds/lotrfan
Summary: The Breaking of the Fellowship. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli make the difficult decision to follow the Orcs and attempt to rescue Merry and Pippin. This is story of their journey from Parth Galen to Fangorn Forest from each of their perspectives.Written for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2018 for the prompt of Three Hunters with artwork by @master-of-the-lackadaisicalArt found here: https://i.imgur.com/bPYEHTp.jpg





	Through Fields of Green

**Author's Note:**

> a few distinct lines of dialogue have been retained from the original work--the scene where the Three Hunters meet Eomer.

 

**_Gimli:_ **

We have arrived too late. It is obvious from the way Aragorn is gripping Boromir’s hand rather than tending to those awful wounds he bears. 

If there were any chance to save him Aragorn would already be at it. That he is not and is instead speaking intently to Boromir--in so low a voice that I cannot catch his words--is proof enough.

Perhaps the Elf can hear him for his face pales and his eyes widen as we approach; I know it is not the wounds alone for he has seen far worse in his lifetime.

Legolas hears far better than I do but it will not do to admit that to him. So, I force myself to remain silent and clench my jaw to keep from asking him what Aragorn says. 

But it seems their conversation will not last for Boromir gives Aragorn a grimace that appears to be an attempt at a smile. He pulls Aragorn close, to whisper something before he goes limp, fingers slipping out of the hand that grips his own.

I have never seen him look so—he is finally at peace, this complicated Man of Gondor. 

We move to stand at Aragorn’s side.

“We heard the horn,” Legolas says. “But we are too late.” He puts his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder. “You have taken hurt as well. It must be tended, Aragorn.”

But Aragorn shakes his head. “I was not in time myself. He fell defending the Hobbits, by his own account.” He lifts his head to look at us, the anguish evident in his eyes. “They took Merry and Pippin. Bound them and carried them off.” He pounds his fist into his thigh. “Nothing has gone as planned this day. I have erred and misjudged. What am I to do now—our companions are lost to us.” 

Legolas kneels down next to Aragorn, one hand briefly reaching out to touch Boromir’s chest lightly. “We must tend to Boromir. We cannot leave him here, like this, among these evil creatures.”

I take a step closer. “Aye, we must. But we must make haste. We cannot tarry here. If the Orcs have the Merry and Pippin we must give chase.” I frown down at Aragorn. “Were Frodo and Sam with them?”

“I did not ask Boromir until it was too late. I do not know if they have been carried off as well or if Frodo and Sam have somehow escaped the carnage of this day.” He looks around the clearing then back down at Boromir and sighs. “I do not know if Frodo is with them,” Aragorn says again. “Safeguarding the Ring-bearer was our appointed task. Must we not seek him out first?” 

Legolas leans towards Aragorn. “First things first. We must tend our fallen comrade then choose the path before us.” He turns his solemn green eyes to me. “We have no means to bury him, as this land is too stubborn I think even for you, Gimli. Could we build a cairn?” 

I shake my head. He is right—the earth is solid and we have no implements to dig but there are few stones to mound over him either, not here. “No,” I say. “Not unless we do it by the waterside but that is chancy with the rising river waters.” 

My words seem to reach Aragorn, who finally stands. “Then we will give him to the Anduin. Gondor’s river for Gondor’s son. We shall lay him in one of the boats. It is all we can do in these circumstances and we are sorely pressed for time.”

I hew branches to create a makeshift bier for Boromir as Legolas scavenges arrows from the carnage. Aragorn searches through the dead Orcs. He returns when I call to him that I am done. 

“These are not Mordor folk,” he says, tossing a shield and helm to the ground in front of me. “I know their kind but this is not a device I have seen before.”

Legolas comes closer now, the distaste evident in his face as he studies the S-rune painted on the helm and the strangely delicate small, white hand emblazoned on the shield.

“What does it matter, what sigil Sauron has chosen this time?” I ask. “That is an S-rune, plain as day.” 

Legolas frowns and shakes his head. 

“No,” Aragorn says. “These are not Mordor folk—not by garb, or sigil or weaponry.” He kicks the helm. “It is as we feared—as Gandalf surmised—for I believe this is an army come from Isengard. Saruman has fully turned to the Darkness.” He looks back at the bodies then at us again. “We must work quickly now.”

Somehow, we manage to get Boromir to the riverside on my makeshift bier but the boats are at the campsite, further down the river. Aragorn offers to stay and stand vigil while Legolas and I make our way back to fetch a boat. 

We find our camp is undisturbed, the baggage and packs as we left them, the boats pulled up on the shore. The tranquility of it is unsettling with all that has befallen us today. 

Legolas stops suddenly, eyes taking it all in and tilts his head in a way that is becoming very familiar to me. “There are only two boats,” he says and my head whips around to look. 

Two boats. We exchange glances and another hurried look around the clearing but then he tugs at my sleeve. 

“Frodo and Sam’s packs are gone, Gimli. Nothing else is missing but their belongings. They must have come back here.” He looks again to the boats, a grim expression on his face. “I think they are beyond our reach now.” 

There is another tug on my sleeve. “We must get back to Aragorn. Can you man a boat yourself, Gimli?” His eyes are concerned as they meet mine. “If we have but two we must perforce use one for Boromir but we could make up the time to return here if we have the second boat with us.” His eyebrows have drawn together in thought. I know he does not ask this lightly nor does he mean any insult by it. He knows better than anyone how skittish I have been in these small craft. For all my years beside the Long Lake and the River Running I have yet to become a skilled sailor.

I can manage it. I have to do it. We are pressed for time and he is being surprisingly sensible. _I can do it_ , I repeat to myself, before answering him. 

“I can manage.” It comes out far gruffer than I intend. 

He nods once, squeezes my shoulder and heads towards the shoreline leaving me no choice but to follow him. 

It is a bloody nightmare paddling against the current. My arms are strong, that is not the issue. My stature is what makes it an ordeal. The blasted Elf had made it look so easy when we shared a boat. 

It bloody well is not easy, not for me. My strokes are not as long, as sure or as steady as the Elf’s. I sit lower too, which throws the whole endeavor off. We do not have far to go but still I lag behind. My boat is taking on water too, much to my alarm. 

“All right there, Gimli?” Legolas calls, turning to give me a searching look from the boat that he is manning so effortlessly. His paddling rhythm does not falter and his boat doesn’t wobble, even with him twisted around like that. 

He likely weighs no more than a full water canteen, damn woodland sprite. I remember how weightless he seemed, leaping over the snow on Caradhras. 

As he comes to a stop I make another effort to close the gap between our boats. 

“Are you all right?” Legolas asks again, a frown on his face now as I draw near. “I can tow you if you need,” he offers, rummaging in the boat before raising a coil of rope in his hand. “I can just tie the boats together to make it easier.” He is floating next to me now. “Why did I not think of this earlier?” he mutters as he lashes the rope to his boat. 

I shake my head at him. There is absolutely no way that I will allow myself to be towed behind his boat like a child at play! “I can manage,” I growl and take the opportunity to paddle harder and get ahead of him. 

I do not say it out of spite as I once might have. I no longer feel the animosity that plagued our earliest interactions. Legolas’ unparalleled hearing and eyesight have saved us many times over since we set out from Rivendell.  He is a fearsome warrior--that side of him I have seen more than once. 

His actions spared my life in Moria, though I have not come out and said as much to him.  

I have grown to know him, in a way, the times we spent wandering in the Golden Wood together, the long days sharing a boat on the river, exchanging stories of our homelands. We are alone, we two, among our company—the only representatives of our kind. It pushed us apart at first. But now it pulls us closer to each other. 

Who knew he had a weakness for sweets to match my own? I discovered that we frequent the same decadent bakery in Dale, renowned for their honey cakes and more. And he has a competitive spirit to match my own. It drives me to do foolish things, as I do now, determined to assume a proficiency that I do not have. 

My boat is still taking on water. 

I can hear him mutter again, some Elvish phrase this time so I cannot understand it. And he manages to pass me, pointy-eared menace that he is, as we reach the place where Aragorn waits. Legolas beaches his boat and wades into the water as I struggle to reach the shore. 

Blasted Elf. Before I can stop him, he grabs the front end of my boat and tows me to the riverbank. I bluster and sputter but he just keeps looking at me with that cool gaze as he gracefully walks backwards, dragging me along in his wake. I can only clench my jaw and bite down on my retort. 

I need him to keep the boat steady when I clamber out, you see. 

As we rejoin Aragorn the pall of Boromir’s demise falls over us again. I knew this was a dangerous mission when I agreed to be part of it. There have been many times along this road that I have feared for our lives; for my life. 

We have lost two of our companions. _Six_ , my mind whispers, but I dismiss that voice. Merry and Pippin were alive when Boromir last saw them so I must hold out hope. And the mystery of the missing boat makes me think that Frodo and Sam are responsible for its disappearance. It lightens the tightness in my chest to think that they have survived this too. 

But two companions lost is still too many. The young Hobbits loss cuts deep and I can already see that Aragorn is preparing to shoulder much, if not all, of the blame for Boromir’s death as well. As he did Gandalf’s.

While I have been contemplating our losses Legolas and Aragorn have already laid Boromir out in the boat. Legolas stoops to tuck Boromir’s Elven cloak under his head and gently folds his hands on his chest. Aragorn has washed Boromir’s face clean of blood and grime and once again I am struck by the softening of the harsh outlines of his features. His burden has been eased, that much is clear. 

I did not know him well. None of us did. Private, intense, proud. He showed his softer side with the Hobbits but tension was never far from him—whether it was in his careful observation of Frodo or in his stilted interactions with Aragorn or the relative remoteness he maintained with the rest of us. 

I pick up the cloven horn, which Aragorn has salvaged from the battleground. I gently place it on Boromir’s lap. 

“Be at peace, soldier of Gondor,” Aragorn says as I stand up. 

We each speak words over him---Legolas in his language and I in mine then Aragorn speaks some words in a tongue that is unfamiliar to me. 

I do not share what I say. I know not where Men go when they pass from life. But a blessing is simply that—a blessing—in whatever language it is spoken and if it shelters his mortal form on its travels down the river and speeds his passing, then all the better. 

They lift their voices in song but I do not join them. I do not have their facility with words so I bow my head in respect as Boromir is lost to our sight. 

My leaky boat is left on the shoreline—it is of no use to us in that condition. It would sink if more than one of us were to sail it back and we are three. 

We make our way back to our campsite on foot now that our meagre funeral rites are complete. Aragorn surveys it all with the critical eye of a Ranger of the North. He takes in our story of the missing boat and the missing packs. He tracks footprints in the soft earth by the water. 

I am relieved that he believes Frodo and Sam live but my heart chills at the thought that they have gone to Mordor on their own. 

“My heart is heavy at the thought of Frodo and Sam in the Dark Lands with no guide and no guard,” Legolas says. “But it burns at the thought of Merry and Pippin at the mercy of those evil creatures that took them. What say you, Aragorn? Where does our path lie?”

“Every decision I have made this day has been ill-fated,” Aragorn says. He closes his eyes, a grimace on his face as he ponders our fate. Legolas meets my eyes across the clearing and tilts his head. My nod is answer enough.

By unspoken accord Legolas and I will abide by Aragorn’s will, whatever decision he makes. 

“I would have taken Frodo into the fiery flames of Mordor,” he finally says. “But he has chosen his own path and mine must go a different way.” Aragorn reaches an arm out to each of us and we draw near enough to clasp his forearms, creating a circle of three. “I will not leave Merry and Pippin to torture and torment. Come, my friends. We go after the Orcs!” 

Their trail is hard to miss. A swathe of trampled greenery cuts its way through the trees. Legolas wrinkles his nose in distaste at the sight. 

“They go with great haste,” Aragorn says. “We will have work ahead of us to gain on their progress.” 

“The welfare of those merry young folk will keep our hearts burning and our endurance keen,” Legolas says, but his eyes dart to me. I can see a shadow of doubt in them and it rouses my ire.

“I may not be as light on my feet as you, Master Elf! But Dwarves are swift and tireless over harsh terrain. Lead on Aragorn. We begin our hunt.” 

“Aye,” Aragorn says. “The three kindreds in swift pursuit—the speed of Elves, the steadfastness of Dwarves and the determination of Men. The Three Hunters now set forth!” 

And then he is off, Legolas at his heels. “Here we go then,” I mutter to myself as I trot along after them. Let us hope the endurance of the Dwarves is as steadfast as Aragorn seems to believe.

 

 

**_Aragorn_ :**

 

Thousands of miles have I walked in my years of wandering; up hills and mountains, through forests and along rivers, in stinking fens and dreadful marshes. Places where a horse would do me no good or bring too much attention. 

But running is not something I enjoy, least of all chasing after a swift and tireless Elf. It brings memories of my childhood years in Rivendell, hopelessly racing after my long-legged brothers, thinking I might catch them. It did not take long to learn that I could never best them. Not in running, nor the sword, the spear, the bow. Perhaps in temper and that only Elrohir. 

But running is a necessity now. Gimli, Legolas and I are compelled to chase a swiftly moving enemy along this endless plain, frustration and tedium growing with our every step. The only glimmer of hope we have sits in my pocket—the brooch we found driving us on amid the deepening despair. 

The days pass in like manner--pushing ourselves while the sun is in the sky, moving swiftly in these green fields, pausing only for fresh water and to renew ourselves with fragments of the  _lembas_ of Lothlorien. Night brings us to a grudging halt—the weak light of the new moon does us no favors in this terrain. 

It troubles Legolas—the forced standstill I bring us to as nightfall comes—but I cannot risk it. 

Even his eyes will not catch small hobbit footprints in this deep grass. Legolas does not reproach me or even question my decision but I do not miss the crease that forms between his brows as his gaze travels over the silent plain. 

Unease shadows me.  I have traveled through this realm before, in years long past and again in more recent times. The Rohirrim live further south but in my memory these lands were always rich in roaming herds and the herdsmen watching them were plentiful.  

It is empty now, as far as the eye can see. 

Legolas sighted an eagle wheeling high above us two days past but we have seen no other birds or beasts since then. It is unnatural, the silence that surrounds us. 

It reminds me of Hollin and that does not bode well for us. 

As with the falling of every dusk, we halt.  Gimli’s face is creased with weariness. Our pace has been punishing and he takes the respite readily, gratefully sinking down in the soft grassland. Cool water and a fragment of _lembas_ bread—the generosity of Galadriel has proved our salvation yet again. 

Legolas never rests. Pacing back and forth, the tension is evident in the set of his shoulders and I suppress a sigh. He will tell me soon enough what troubles him; it will not do to irk him further with questions. 

My wait is not long. He rounds on me, eyebrows drawn together in a fierce scowl. Gimli sits close enough to overhear us but, in his agitation, Legolas makes no attempt to keep his voice low or use the more private Sindarin he usually favors when he chastises me. 

“Now I wish I had not agreed to these nighttime rests, Aragorn! I begrudge our every halt,” he says. “These Orcs have not paused, not even for the noontime Sun. It is as if their masters whip them into frenzied flight.” He curses under his breath and then continues. “They are sure to have reached the forest by now and we are leagues behind.” 

Gimli speaks before I can reply. “You believe all hope is lost, then? Our travail has been in vain?” 

“Hope dwindles, that is certain but what we have done is not in vain,” I say, when I can finally manage to get a word in. “We have come too far to turn back now. We must see this to its end.” 

My descent to sit upon the ground is heavy and without grace. My knees draw up, arms coming to rest on them before my head, heavy with the fatigue of days in pursuit, drops onto them. “But I confess I am weary.” The stars are dim yet, the crescent moon newly rising. 

I do not like this place. It is too silent here, too empty. 

My inner thoughts I keep to myself: our enemies find renewed strength while I find myself losing heart. 

“I have known this since we first encountered them, Aragorn,” Legolas continues, standing over me. “These Orcs are unnatural, more unnatural than any I have encountered in my long life. They are not rabble. They press on as if pursued by very whips of flame.” Looking around us, he surveys the dim, deserted plain. “The land itself is ill at ease, their passing silencing all in their way. It weighs on me, a malice lurking hidden.” 

It weighs on me as well. “Saruman,” I whisper. “These are his doings. But we must not falter. The clouds may gather but we must press on. Our road lies north when day graces us again.” 

“You will halt us for the night, then?” Legolas asks, shoulders slumping when I nod. “I will abide by your decision, Aragorn, but these hours of delay hinder us. You know this.” He moves away when I do not answer. 

Legolas’ words are sharp and echo my own misgivings. I have battled with myself each day, as night draws near: should I call a halt? The fear of missing a fallen clue in the dark, overlooking a diverting trail, overwhelms me and each night I halt our progress to assuage it. Legolas has indulged me thus far but his patience is obviously waning as our pursuit becomes ever more hopeless.

My exhaustion plays its part. I cannot maintain the pace he sets without a break. I tell myself I do it for Gimli, for the lost clues, but I do it for myself as well. 

He has the tirelessness and perseverance of the Eldar, which Gimli and I cannot hope to match. Legolas has so far been tolerant of our shortcomings, more tolerant than I expected. I envy his indefatigability. He could have gone on his own and likely reached them by now, if we were not slowing him down. Perhaps I should have let him do that but despite his protestations even he is no match for an Orc band of this size, no matter how stealthy and skilled he is.  

Even now, after days on the run, in the midst of abject despair, Legolas is all beauty and grace. He would not sink to the ground in a jumbled tangle of disjointed limbs, as I do. He stands now, tall and straight, the breeze stirring a strand of his bright hair. There is not a single move he makes that is unwieldy or clumsy. He could sink beside me, in one fluid, graceful motion, and not disturb a single blade of grass. 

He has been considerate of Gimli’s fatigue but can he not see my own? Does he see how each decision burdens me further? Perhaps his frustration is as much with me as with our situation. 

Sleep comes slowly to all of us. The whispered words of Elf and Dwarf drift over to me, too indistinct to make out. The rumble of Gimli is met with a snort of Elven amusement. 

It causes me to open my eyes to regard them. They are not far, dim shapes sitting shoulder to shoulder, their murmurs rising and falling, as Gimli’s tones grow sharper and Legolas’ soothing voice overwhelms the gruff retort. 

I do not understand this affinity that has grown between them. Glances exchanged, entire conversations taking place around me that I cannot decipher. I am used to being alone. But I did not expect to feel so in their company. 

I roll in the other direction and firmly shut my eyes. This stop was at my request—I best make use of the respite. 

Loneliness is familiar to me. But for perhaps the first time in years, I did not feel it with the Fellowship. We were all odd men out, in our own ways. Wizard, Elf, Dwarf. A hobbit bearing a heavy burden, with an inexperienced and naïve companion at his side due to sheer loyalty alone. Two Men burdened with their own tangled destinies and outnumbered by the rest.

  
And our two youngsters, far too young to be a part of such an undertaking but keeping us on our toes with their unquenchable spirit, jolly banter and mischievous pranks. 

It had never been like that for me before. I was loved in Rivendell—of that there was never any question—but I was not ‘of them’, the difference all the more striking as I grew. 

Even among the Dunedain, my own kinsmen; I was not ‘of them’ either. My manners were too Elvish, my discourse too refined. My lineage was an unseen but always present barrier that kept others at a distance—all save Halbarad. 

It was no different in Gondor. My Sindarin was flawless, my skills with sword and bow and lance unmatched, my strategy beyond reproach; but I was still too provincial, from the uncultured wilds of Eriador. 

Too learned for my companions in the barracks. Far too rustic for the Lords. Much too reticent for the intrigue of society functions. Too skilled in strategy and too well esteemed by Ecthelion for the Steward’s heir. Caught between worlds, as always. 

And now once more, I am the odd man out between an Elf and Dwarf, who find more kinship in each other than with me.

There had been a glimmer of camaraderie, a shared kinship with Legolas that had taken root early in our travels. It was heady, to feel as if I had finally found a friend. 

Gandalf was a mentor, an esteemed companion and guide, someone who I revered for his learning and his lore, his shrewd wit and incisive mind. 

But Legolas—his Elvenness was a familiar comfort to me, far from those I hold so dear. I grew to rely on his eyes and ears, his steadiness in the face of challenges, his cheerful banter lifting my heart. 

He has been my stalwart comrade after Gandalf’s fall, supporting me in every choice and giving no rebuke. I trust him and my trust is not given lightly. I have not had the time or inclination to make friends along the way—secrecy and subtlety have been my constant companions. But this time, I was willing to try.

It is hard to be alone for so very long. It was comforting to think on this journey I would not have to be. But, as always, home and comfort are not meant for me.

I have only felt at home with my adopted family but I have not had even that luxury for years. The spectre of Arwen’s choice lies between me and my foster father. My brothers will not speak of it, not anymore. It lies between us too—a gossamer veil that casts a shadow on our hearts. 

Except on my Arwen. If there is a home for me, it is wherever she is. There I am not found lacking or overbearing. I am simply Aragorn, to whom she has given her heart, and she is the one who holds my own. 

I need not measure up to anyone, not for her. She sees me for who I am—not the flawed heir of Isildur, nor the grim chief of the Dunedain, not the scruffy, shifty Strider, not even the wide-eyed, naïve Estel. 

She has a faith in me that is unshakeable, stronger even than my own. There is no need to prove myself, just _be_ myself. In the steadfast surety of her love I am stronger. She is what keeps me on this path, gives me strength to go on, fortifies my resolve whenever I am in doubt. 

The stars above me shine over Rivendell tonight as well. Even over the distance we can share the sky above us. I cannot reach across the miles but the thought that she is there comforts me. 

We wake to a red dawn. Legolas’ agitation is palpable as he harries us until we are afoot again. The pace he sets is brutal and even I must strain to keep up. 

He goes this way until nightfall. 

The downs are not far now, the grass shorter and drier here. But this trek has taken its toll as my stride falters. Legolas is radiating frustration but he surprisingly stays silent. Catching him eyeing Gimli I know why he does not speak.

Gimli goes sluggishly now, his strength of will all that is keeping him on his feet, head down, shoulders slumped in weariness. Steadfast as stone he may be but we have kept a grueling pace for days on end now. His heart is stout but the tendrils of despair are gaining. My pace slows further to match his own. 

Legolas still ranges ahead of us, his step graceful, his head unbowed. But even his boundless energy is sapped by the growing hopelessness that shadows all our hearts, as dusk draws near again. 

“Let us climb this hill,” he calls out, voice still light, and swiftly he glides to the top. Feet dragging, we follow in his wake. 

The mountains in the distance seem like shadows in the setting sun. The emptiness surrounds us and the chill wind whips at our cloaks. 

Gimli sidles up to me, darting glances to where Legolas stands at the far edge of the hill. “He does not sleep,” he mutters. 

“He has little need to do so,” I reply. 

“He should take his rest,” Gimli says forcefully, frowning now in Legolas’ direction. “I told him so.” 

“And he assured you he would not?” I know Legolas. Far better than Gimli realizes.

Gimli’s scowl is directed at me now. “Speak to him, Aragorn! We rest and he does not. He cannot keep this up.” 

A sigh escapes my lips. There is little I can do to coerce a recalcitrant Silvan to take his rest, but Gimli will not let me rest until I do something. As I start to move towards him, Legolas turns to face us. 

He has been listening. Of course, he has been listening. 

“Gimli, you should not pester Aragorn like this.” 

“If you would listen to reason, I would not need to drag him into it,” is the growled reply. 

Legolas turns to me. “Aragorn, tell him.”

 “Tell him what?” 

“Tell him I do not need to sleep. He seems determined not to listen to me. I told him last night and the night before—I can go many nights without needing to sleep as you mortals do.” Legolas inclines his head toward Gimli. “Tell him,” he says to me again. 

“Gimli,” I begin, only to be cut off as Gimli rises to his feet, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Yes, yes, he told me that he can go for weeks on end without a full night’s sleep but there is no need for him to do so, Aragorn. We are here for each other—he should take his rest as we do and he should not skimp on food either!”

I rub fingers on my aching forehead and regret my foolish loneliness of the night before.  Things never fail to get tangled when Legolas is involved. A thousand nights alone I have spent in the Wild and at this moment I would gladly have the solitude of that than spend any more of our precious rest time mediating a squabble over sleeping habits and food distribution between a cantankerous Dwarf and an unreasonable Elf. I had thought the need for arbitration was over, with their new-found bond. My assumption was wrong. 

It was far more peaceful when they were leaving me out of things.

The sliver of the moon is higher in the sky by the time I have finally sorted them out. Gimli grudgingly agrees to rest but only after he has watched Legolas crunch his way through a generous fragment of _lembas_. Satisfied, he rolls himself in his Elven cloak and burrows into the soft grass. His snores finally come and Legolas smiles to himself at the sound.

It is Legolas’ voice, softly singing to himself, that finally lulls me into dreamless sleep.

 

The wind has picked up even more by morning and a grey light filters through clouds as we wake. Scanning our horizon from our elevated vantage point I see it.

In the distance there is a blur of darker grey but it is not downs or scrubby brush, for it moves and undulates in our direction as I watch. Pressing my ear to the ground the muffled thunder of hoofbeats traveling through the earth reaches me.

“Riders!” I exclaim, rising to clap a hand to Legolas’ shoulder.

He is shading his eyes with his hand, gaze directed at the sinuous, shifting shape not so many leagues away. “I count one hundred and five. Their spears are bright and their leader sits tall at the head of their company.” There is a mischievous glint in his eye as he shares this information.

Gimli laughs and I cannot help but roll my eyes at Legolas. Of course. He probably could tell me the color of their eyes if I did but ask.

But it is good to see them both in brighter spirits, if only for a moment. Smiling, I ask “Shall you tell me if they are bearded or clean shaven?” 

“You know I can,” Legolas replies. “Although they are closer now so it would not be a challenge to do so. Try something harder, Aragorn. Five leagues are child’s play.” 

“They will be upon us soon enough,” I reply. My spirits rise at Legolas’ words. His lightheartedness cannot be quenched, not even by the arduous trek and surliness of his companions. His teasing calls to mind my brothers; all that is missing is Elrohir’s lazy drawl and Elladan’s exasperated eyeroll at my Mannish inadequacies. 

Gimli’s grunt cuts through my reminiscing. “We are exposed on this hilltop and cannot escape them on this plain. Do we set off again or wait for them here?” 

“We wait. They are the first living thing we have seen in these lands. I am weary of the chase. These horsemen are riding back along the Orc trail. Perhaps we may get news from them,” I say. 

Gimli grunts again. “Or become too closely acquainted with the tips of their bright spears.” 

“There are three horses without riders but I see no Hobbits in their company,” Legolas says. 

“Their news may not be good. Even so, what we learn will either set our hearts at ease or aflame. But I cannot outrun these Riders, so we will wait to hear it, foul or fair,” I say. 

Scrambling down the hilltop, in far more haste than we climbed it, we manage to seat ourselves at the northward slope with our cloaks tightly wrapped around us to cut the biting wind. 

Gimli shifts restlessly at my side. “What do you know of these Men, Aragorn? What sort are they? Do we court our doom, waiting for them like this?” 

“Once I knew them well,” I say. “They are a proud sort, but brave and true. They are not makers, like your folk, Gimli; nor are they builders and creators, like the Men of Gondor. Books are rare in these lands but they are rich in song and story.” I frown. “But it is years since I roamed these lands. The Rohirrim were ever friends of Gondor. I do not fear for our lives. They may be suspicious of us but they will not harm us unprovoked.”

“Gandalf spoke of a tribute to Mordor,” Gimli says.

I shake my head. “I believe Boromir had the right of it—these Men are not in thrall to Mordor.” I leave unsaid the question of Saruman, for I do not know what he has wrought in these lands. 

“We will know soon enough,” Legolas says. “They are almost upon us.” 

The sound of voices raised in song reaches me, the drumming of the horses’ hooves on the hard ground a rhythmic accompaniment. It is not long before they arrive at our small hill.  
  
These Men are swift and tall, helms and mail shining in the weak sunlight, the horses powerful. They do not halt or falter as they pass us by, close enough that we can see their grim faces, their flaxen braids, the glittering points of their long spears. 

But they do not mark our presence for they file before us without pause.

Standing, I let my voice ring out. “Riders of Rohan! What news from the North?” 

Their horsemanship is unmatched. The entire company wheels around until we are surrounded on all sides, the horses cantering in a running circle, dizzying to the eyes. Legolas and Gimli press closer to me as the horsemen draw nearer. 

The Riders come to a sudden halt, spears pointed in our direction, no space between them as they form a wall around us. The twang of bows being strung and arrows being nocked is all that can be heard in the sudden stillness.

A lone rider advances on me, his spear within a hands-breath of my chest. Legolas mutters furiously next to me as Gimli grunts in indignation and I must summon all my calm as I elbow them into silence. 

Confound them both! We are in an untenable situation, with a hostile force outnumbering us. Diplomacy is required, not ire. 

“Who are you?” The Rider demands, tone brusque and full of suspicion. 

“I am named Strider,” I say, holding my empty hands out in front of me. “I hail from the North. I am hunting a party of Orcs who passed this way.” 

The Rider passes his spear to one of his companions, then drops off his horse. He draws his sword and comes to stand directly in front of me. 

“I had thought you were Orcs but I see I am mistaken. You are not well versed in Orc hunting, if you go about it with such small numbers and in this fashion. They were many and well-armed.” He narrows his bright blue eyes at me. “Your name is uncommon and your clothing too. How did we not see you as we passed? Are you fey Elven folk from the Golden Wood?”

Ignoring the splutter of indignation from Legolas beside me, I am determined to keep my face and tone pleasant as I answer his question. “No, only one of us is of the fair folk of Mirkwood. We have passed through the Golden Wood and received shelter and aid there.” 

The Rider’s face twists into a grimace. “The Lady of the Golden Wood is known to us in rumors and in tales of old. A sorceress is she and few escape her webs of deceit. But who are your silent companions? Why do they allow you to speak for them?” He turns his glare to Legolas and Gimli.

Gimli’s stance does not bode well. He glares up at the Rider, hand white-knuckled on his axe handle and feet spread wide in a fighting stance. “Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides,” he says, before I can elbow him into silence. A groan escapes my lips at his words.

  
The Rider looks at Gimli strangely. “It is customary for the stranger to speak first,” he says. “But I will do you this small courtesy, for you are obviously foreigners in this land.” He meets Gimli’s scowl. “I am Eomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark.”

Eomund’s son. The name takes me back, back to the days I rode in these lands in my youth. The days when I too was a Marshal of the Mark. Eomund had been but a child then, a boisterous boy, always underfoot, and always in the company of young Theoden.

This Eomer has his father’s blue eyes though they are far flintier than Eomund’s wide-eyed gaze. But the snub nose is the same, the effortless seat on horseback, the rashness of his speech.

Eomund never could keep his thoughts to himself, not even in the presence of the King. It used to make Thengel laugh, to hear the child’s unbridled commentary. Such a contrast to Theoden’s quieter demeanor—every remark thought out before it left his lips, measured and mannered.

The years weigh on me suddenly.

My momentary distraction has allowed Gimli a chance to speak again and to my horror he is taking a tone with Eomer that can only be described as belligerent. 

“Eomer, son of Eomund,” Gimli says, “Third Marshal of the Riddermark you may be, but let Gimli, Gloin’s son, caution you to mark your words. You speak of much that you do not know and you speak unwisely. Your ignorance is all that can explain your villainous words against the Lady Galadriel.” 

So much for diplomacy. 

Eomer’s eyes spark and his company crackles with fury around us. He steps closer to Gimli, eyes narrowed into slits. “I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground,” Eomer says.

“He stands not alone,” Legolas says, his bow whipping in front of him, an arrow already pointing at Eomer’s chest. “You would die before your stroke fell.”

Leave it to these two to make me long for the days when their animosity towards each other was far stronger than their regard. 

May the Void take them both!

Shoving my way between them before Eomer can put his sword to use, hands raised, palms forward I stand in front of my quarrelsome companions in an attempt to shield them from Eomer’s wrath. “I crave your pardon, Eomer, son of Eomund. When we have told you of our travails you will comprehend what has so enraged my companions. We seek no quarrel with you and mean no harm to you or your people. Will you not hear us out?”

“Strange travelers in unfamiliar lands should keep a civil tongue in their heads. It would do you well to watch yourselves in these dark times.” Eomer’s face is grim and I hold my breath. “But I will hear your tale and your rightful names as well. These are strange times and I cannot tarry long. Be quick.” 

“In good time,” I say. “But before I do so this I must know—who does Rohan serve?” 

“Rohan serves none other than the Lord of the Mark, Theoden King. What mean you by such question?” 

“In these strange times, as you say, we must be sure we are not in the company of those who serve the great Enemy, Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor,” I respond. 

His face flushes in anger. “We would never serve that Dark Power. War from his quarter has not come to our lands and if your quarrel is with him it is best you quit this place in due haste. We are in conflict with other, closer foes. We serve no foreign powers, bow to no distant threat. But we are a land in tumult and strangers now will find us wary and guarded in our words and actions.” Eomer steps closer to me now. “But whom do you serve? Who are you, to hunt a party of Orcs in our lands?” 

It is always like this. Few are the places I may go where suspicion and harsh words are not the first greeting I encounter. Or the only greeting I face. I am weary of it. 

A lifetime I have spent, shielded by names that obscure my true self. Names given to me, foretold for me, bequeathed to me, shouted in derision at me. When the cloak and hood are stripped away, who is the Man beneath? The orphan, the stranger, the wanderer, the warrior? 

“I am a servant of no man,” I say, but my tone has shifted to match his, despite myself. “The servants of evil are my quarry in any land and few know as much of Orcs as I do. I am not here by choice but by dismal happenstance. Two of our company have been taken captive by these Orcs and they are who we seek.”

It seems Legolas and Gimli’s indignation has bled into me as well for I pull my sword from its scabbard and bring it into the light. Enough. It may not be the right time or place but I will conceal myself no more.  The names are mine by right but never have I been free to proclaim them at my will, to throw aside all subterfuge and be who I am. 

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” I cry. “I am Elessar, the Elfstone, Dunadan, Isildur’s heir. This is the Sword that was Broken and forged anew.” My voice rises as I meet his stunned eyes. “So Eomer, son of Eomund, Third Marshal of the Riddermark—will you assist me in my pursuit or will you impede me to your peril?” 

Gimli and Legolas move to flank me as I speak and now, from the corner of my eye, I can see Gimli’s jaw drop at the revelation he knows has been kept concealed for so long. Legolas makes an indignant noise and I know I will never hear the end of this from him. But I wait for Eomer’s reply. 

He is shaken, pale and awed. “Strange days when legends come to life and folk from old wives’ tales tread our lands.” Eomer takes a step back, eyes still on me. “Your words bring unease to me heart. It is long since the horse we lent Boromir, son of Denethor, came back riderless and much disquiet did that bring to us. The Son of the Steward has long been gone from these lands, seeking news of that very sword you wield.” 

“War has come to your lands, Eomer, whether you have seen it yet or not. Sauron has arisen yet again and the time to declare for him or against him is upon you. I must speak to your King of this and other matters. But haste presses me now—I must have tidings from you. We pursue our friends, captives taken by the Orc horde passing through your lands. What say you of this?” 

“That pursuing the Orcs is now in vain. They are destroyed,” Eomer says. 

“Our friends?” Gimli chokes out. “What of our friends?” 

“We saw only Orcs.” 

“Did you search the fallen?” I ask. “We seek halflings, hobbits they are called in their own tongue.” 

“They are as children,” Legolas bursts in. “So high,” he marks the height with his hand before continuing. “Clad in cloaks like to our own. Did you not see any such?” There is desperation in his voice. 

“Hobbits?” Eomer questions. 

“Halflings,” Gimli says. “From the West, beyond the Misty Mountains. They are from the same verse you spoke of before, the one that Boromir sought answer to—those halflings are our dear friends. They are who we seek.” 

The Rider next to Eomer glowers. “Eomer, what say you to all this nonsense? Elves, Dwarves, the Lady of the Wood and now tales of Halflings? Is this the Riddermark or have we fallen into a childhood tale or song of old?” 

I step forward. “The tales of old are based in fact and old wives are often wiser than young warriors,” I say. “Legends have always walked these lands, from Ages past to these very days. That they are revealed to you does not make them any less true.” 

“Eomer,” the Rider speaks again, his tone urgent and warning. “We must make haste south. We cannot linger. Do what you will with these odd folk but do it now.” 

“Let me think in peace,” Eomer says. “Leave us, Eothain. Assemble the company and make ready to ride.” 

When we are alone, Eomer leans close. “All that you say brings me a great foreboding, Aragorn. But my heart tells me that you speak the truth. You have not told me all of your errand in our lands and I must have that knowledge to guide my decision.” Eomer’s voice is low and urgent. 

“We set out from Imladris, months ago,” I say. “Boromir of Gondor was of our company. I was to accompany him to Minas Tirith, to bring tidings and assistance to Denethor in preparation for war with Sauron. The rest of my companions had tasks elsewhere. More I cannot say.” I sigh before I reveal one more detail. “Gandalf the Grey led our company.”

Eomer’s eyes widen. “Gandalf?” he exclaims. “He is known to us. But be aware—he has lost all welcome in our lands. Time again he has guested with us, time and again he has brought us tidings of evil. But I have not seen him since the summer past, when things began to sour for us all.” Eomer’s voice drops to a whisper. “Saruman,” he hisses. “That is where our troubles began. Ever was the wizard of Isengard our friend—or so we thought.” 

“He is friend to none but the Dark Lord now,” I say. 

“So it has come to pass,” Eomer says. “Gandalf told Theoden he was not to be trusted those many months ago. But our King is proud and would not listen. He sent Gandalf away with curses to his name. For Gandalf took the most prized stallion of our herds, the chief of all the _Mearas_. He was not seen again in these lands but I will tell you now—Shadowfax returned to us, not seven days hence, riderless and wild.” 

“He parted from Gandalf ere we left and found his way home to you,” I explain. My heart is heavy with what I must say next. “Gandalf was lost to us in the Mines of Moria. He will bring no ill tidings to Theoden ever again.” 

“I grieve,” Eomer says. “Though you will find not all in Edoras will share my sentiment.” 

“It is grievous tidings to all who walk this earth,” I say. “I became the leader of our band after his loss and difficult has been our journey since that time. We came through Lorien, as I mentioned earlier, and then to the Great River. But there, at the Falls of Rauros, we were assaulted by the horde we now pursue and Boromir of Gondor was slain and our companions lost to us.” 

“Your tidings are all grim, Aragorn. Boromir’s death is dire news indeed. But we have had no tidings of this from Gondor. When was he slain?” 

“It is but four days,” I say. “We have journeyed since that time, in pursuit of our companions.” 

Eomer splutters wordlessly, his eyes darting from me to Legolas and then to Gimli. For once the two of them are mercifully silent and I thank the Valar for this boon.

“But where are your horses?” Eomer questions, eyes roaming around us as if we have them hidden somewhere near.

“We came on foot,” Gimli growls and my eyes close in frustration. My thanks to the Valar was somewhat premature.

Eomer stares at him in wonder. “But that is forty leagues and five! This is a feat unparalleled! A race by the three kindreds unmatched by even legends of old. Strider is an ungainly name. It suits you little. You should be named Wingfoot for your speed.” 

But his face falls into seriousness again. “I must return in haste to my lord and King,” he says. “I cannot speak so candidly before my men. It is true we are not at open war but I know war is coming. We shall not forswear our alliance with our friends in Gondor. When they fight, we will fight with them.” For the first time Eomer’s shoulders sag and his face is drawn. “But our trouble is with Saruman. He has claimed these lands and in truth war has been waged in our lands for some months now. He has Orcs and Wolf-riders and all manner of unsavory Men. The Gap is closed to us and I fear that soon we will be besieged. If Gondor calls we may not be able to heed the call, if we are torn asunder by war in our very homes. My heart is heavy with your tidings. I do not mean to pressure you but will you not come to Edoras? Will you not speak to the King?” 

“We must finish the task at hand,” I say. His face falls and he looks so much younger now. He is young, I remind myself. “I will come when I may, Eomer. I can promise you no more than that.” 

I would go with him, if Merry and Pippin were not lost to us. He is a brave man, younger than his manner belies. I cannot fault him for his initial suspicion—his lands are overrun, his people betrayed and besieged. 

But he has dropped his distrust at my words—no proof have I given him but the impression that my eyes do not lie and my words speak true to his heart. There is no doubt Eomund’s blood flows through his veins.

Eomer puts himself in peril, trusting us. Theodwyn’s open heart and Eomund’s brashness shine out in him—here is one I long to know better. 

“Come now! These Orcs you pursue bore the mark of Saruman. We overtook them two days ago, at nightfall, near the edge of the forest. Their company was greater than expected and their ferocity undimmed. We overcame them, with losses on our side, but we prevailed.” Eomer shakes his head. “You will find nothing at the end of this trail but their burning corpses now.” 

Gimli’s intake of breath is loud at my side. Eomer spares him a glance before continuing. “I can give you spare horses. There is much your sword, bow and axe can do in these lands.” He turns to Gimli and Legolas and bows his head. “I seek pardon for my hasty words. I spoke of that which I do not know, as all men do in these lands. I would gladly be schooled in the truth.”  
  
“Much as I wish to come with you Eomer, we must continue to seek our friends. I cannot abandon our quest while hope still lingers.” Gimli and Legolas show the same steely determination in their faces.

“Hope cannot linger,” he says. “Did you not hear my words?” 

“Our friends are not upon the path we have come. We can only hope they lie ahead. The Orcs have not lingered nor have they veered off the trail,” I say. “There is no question we must seek them out along the way ahead of us.” 

“I tell you, Aragorn, we slew all that were in that company.” 

“Yet you did not see our hobbits among the Orc dead,” Legolas insists. “They may have slipped away in the confusion.” 

“I will swear no one slipped through our ranks. If any living thing broke through it must have had some unknown power,” Eomer says, brows furrowed. 

“They were cloaked and hooded as we are,” Gimli says. “And you passed within mere feet of us and saw us not.”

“That I did not know,” Eomer says. “Perhaps then. Perhaps. I know not what to say, when legends spring forth from the grass, Elf and Dwarf walk proudly through our lands and the Lady of the Wood gives gifts to weary travelers. Perhaps your hobbits sprouted wings and flew to safety before our eyes. I would not doubt that tale, after what I have heard this day.” 

“That is one thing I can guarantee did not happen,” Gimli says. “But I cannot vouch that the Eagles have not snatched them up—stranger things than that have been seen.” 

There is a gleam in his eyes as he says this and I hear a strangled laugh from Legolas. It is a story they both know well. 

Eomer looks perplexed. We have no time for tales of Dwarves and Eagles’ wings. “Come, Eomer. You must do your duty to your Lord and we must do our duty to our friends. What say you? Do we have your leave to depart?” I ask. 

He chews his lip in thought before he answers. “I cannot in good conscience thwart your chase. But I am in great haste or I would aid you as I could.” He bites his lip again. “You may go,” he says finally. “I will give you horses, food and water. Be on your way and know I wish you well in your search. But this I must ask in return. When you have completed your quest return with the horses to Meduseld and present yourself to Theoden. Then my trust in you shall not be proven in vain. You may very well hold my fate in your hands.” 

“I will not fail you,” I say and reach out to clasp his hand. Gimli and Legolas reach out to place their hands over ours and their voices echo mine. 

And so, we find ourselves on horseback, following the Orc trail as it heads towards the Entwash and Fangorn Forest just beyond. 

Gimli had initially refused the offer of a steed. “I would sooner walk than climb that,” he had said, eyeing the horse suspiciously, when Eomer had led the riderless horses to us. 

“But you will slow us down if you walk,” I had said, exasperation creeping into my voice. “We have need of haste and the road will be easier for you on horseback.”

He had glowered at me and stood his ground. 

Legolas had laughed and put a hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “Come Gimli, we must not vex Aragorn any further. He is fit to burst as it is. Come, my friend. You shall ride with me. Then you shall not have to borrow a horse nor need to gentle one to bear you.”  
  
Gimli had sputtered for a few minutes, grumbling about falling off and overburdening the horse but Legolas had laughed again. 

“You do not know the bond of Elves and beasts, Gimli. If I tell the horse to keep you safe, the horse will keep you safe, even at the expense of my well-being. Trust me, my friend. And do not fuss about weighing Arod down. Did you not see me on the snowy peak? If I can walk so lightly on the snow I will be of no burden to this horse. He will bear us both as if we are one.” Legolas shot me a look then, eyebrow raised. “I daresay poor Hasufel will be more burdened by Aragorn’s girth than Arod by us both!” 

What is there to even say in answer to that?

 

 

**_Legolas:_ **

Arod is a horse after my own heart. He reminds me of my Nimroch, from so long ago. She was as white and fair, as spirited and nimble; it does my heart good to be on horseback again. I have missed having such a companion.

My other companions are not so agreeable at the moment.  
  
Aragorn has spoken little since we left Eomer. 

He has been more distant, since the events of Parth Galen. I know he blames himself—it does not surprise me that he thinks to shoulder all the responsibility when very little of it is actually to do with him at all.

I cannot help him if I do not know what he is thinking.

It has been a comfort to have someone who shares my language on this journey. Gandalf did, of course, and Boromir some as well—though they did not choose to use it with me or among themselves.  Frodo knew far more than he let on but Aragorn was the only one who willingly spoke it with me. The times he sent me ahead to scout, when he would quietly encourage me to distract the Hobbits, the times he confided his concerns to me when the others were occupied. To speak to me of Arwen. 

But he has been more reticent since even before the Orc attack. In Lothlorien it was plain to see how deeply Gandalf’s loss affected him—even those who knew the Wizard little were shattered by it. 

It crushed my spirit and brought the doubts to my mind. 

I have faced deadly foes. The foul creatures that occupy my home are fierce and lethal--their aura overwhelms one’s spirit. Dol Guldur is a place of dread and darkness. But I, who have fought a thousand battles under the leaves of the Greenwood, have faced the nameless dread that lurks in the shadows of my forest, have slain Orcs beyond number—I was incapable of doing anything of use when faced with the Balrog of Morgoth. 

It is a shame I will carry for the rest of my life.

It is unspoken among us, that terror that paralyzed us all. I cannot think to face Glorfindel again, after my cowardice. 

But I will have to face my father. 

My father, who confronted the horrors of the War of Wrath first-hand, lived through the dreadful massacre of our people at Dagorlad, who has watched his kingdom encroached upon year by year by the hideous darkness that chokes the very life from his realm—what will I say to my father? 

I cannot think of that now. 

Aragorn rides silently beside us, eyes fixed on the trail. He does not want to miss any hint of Merry and Pippin’s passage that we may find along this foul Orc path.

That is why he has been halting us in the night. Finding Pippin’s brooch has shaken him. It brought hope to all our hearts but it put a fear in Aragorn’s—the thought that we might have missed it if it had been nighttime overwhelms him. 

I have tried to be patient but it frustrates me. He _knows_ Isee in the dark, knows just how well I do. I would not have missed that turnoff-- nor would I have missed the brooch—even if pale starlight was all that was lighting our path. 

Our slow pace has weighed on me. I am certain I could have reached the Orcs before now, had I been alone. But even I am not foolish enough to think I could confront a large band of Uruks by myself. 

I would have slain a fair number with my bow, before I even reached them, but a knife-fight in close quarters would have likely been the end of me. And likely of the Hobbits too. 

But more than that—I could not have left Aragorn and Gimli.

They have grown dear to me, for all their prickly exteriors and odd ways. Aragorn made the choice to follow the young Hobbits rather than Frodo. Gimli and I chose to follow him and I will not do otherwise now.

Aragorn has been our leader, since Gandalf’s fall, and in many ways long before that. He may not have chosen to think of himself as such, while Gandalf was alive, but time and time again he made decisions for our Company that allowed us to get this far. There is a thoughtfulness to him, a steadiness, a quiet strength of will. He may not match my skill with a bow but his swordwork, stamina, tracking skills, and stealth are more suited to an Elda than a Man.

I trust him. 

It pains me to see him close himself off. We all are grieving, in our own way. The breaking of our Fellowship was violent and unexpected. But he carries the blame too heavily. He has not been himself since then. 

I did not expect him to declare himself so openly to the Rider. It is not like him. There was such melancholy in his expression just before he pulled Anduril from the scabbard. _Ai,_ I know how it is to have others doubt you on sight. I have had that and not only from Dwarves and Men. 

But it is different for him. He has lived his life with the burden of a heavy destiny and perforce a secretive demeanor. 

It is what has kept him alive. 

I have not told him of my vision, of the white flame like a crown upon his brow—it would be all I could think about now, if Gimli were not being so troublesome. 

Gimli is squirming behind me once again, his grip alternately clutching painfully at my waist or pulling at my belt. It would take more than his fidgeting to put me off balance but it makes it more of a challenge for Arod to maintain pace with his antics. 

“How fare you, Gimli?” I ask it out of politeness but I am growing weary of his grumbles. Arod will keep him safe, I have told him that any number of times already. It is but a few hours since we left Eomer yet Gimli still squawks at every shift in the terrain. It is tiresome. 

I shudder at the thought of Eomer suggesting Gimli take his own steed. What was that Man thinking to even make such an offer? 

Gimli grunts in answer, making me sigh in earnest. This will be a weary way if I cannot get him to settle. I turn in the saddle to look at him and he grabs at me instantly, fingers digging into more than just my clothing, making me wince as he pinches my skin. 

Arod does not falter, even though I am now squirming too. “Gimli,” I say again. “Have a care. You need not clutch at me so tightly. Arod has a steady gait. He will not falter.” It is more or less exactly what I have been saying for the last hour. 

Did Bilbo not mention ponies? I am sure the old Hobbit said just that, when recounting his grand adventure with the Dwarves. Surely Gimli has had some experience—this is not all that different. 

“You know nothing of this horse, Legolas, to say so with such confidence!” Gimli retorts. “He knows you not and I have little faith he will not balk at such a burden as we make!” 

“He will not balk,” I am losing patience. I focus on the words, so they come out slow and measured. It will not do to rile Gimli further but I cannot help but ask the question that lingers in my mind. “Have you not ridden ponies, Gimli? I am sure Bilbo spoke of it, when he was regaling us with stories from when he traveled with your company.” 

I have said the wrong thing for his response is all ire. He has not spoken to me thus since before Lothlorien. 

“I was not on that quest! I was left at home, to brood on my youth and inexperience, while others traveled the road I sought! Ponies!” There is indignation in his voice as he continues. “No, there were no ponies for me. I was sent in a wagon to Erebor, like a child!” 

Deep breath. Count to ten. “I am sorry if I have offended. I had heard the story from Bilbo and assumed.”

Somehow the fight goes out of him at my words. He slumps against my back. “’Tis not your fault for asking, lad,” Gimli says, his voice subdued. “My father deemed me too young to join Thorin’s company and my mother put me in charge of the wagon with our goods when we made the trek to finally join him.” 

He is silent for a few moments. His next words are even softer, but I can catch them, even with the wind. “I have held it against him all these years.” 

I do not have an answer to that. Not a good one, at any rate. 

It seems there is no need to respond, for he keeps on speaking. “I had not yet come of age,” Gimli says gruffly. He squirms again, twisting against my back before he speaks once more. “I’m not using that as an excuse now, mind you.” 

He is still troubled by this. 

“Understood,” I say and then find myself continuing, my voice as gentle as it was with Arod but a few hours ago. “We do not send warriors out if they are not of age. It is only partly based on their maturity.” 

I remember how it vexed me, to know I had bested Father’s most skilled archers, yet he still would not let me join a patrol due to my youth. “But it is mostly for the safety of the patrol,” I continue. “It is hard enough when new recruits join. We try to send them to Laketown or on easier scouting missions at first.” 

It is odd to be having a conversation on the military logistics of the Greenwood with a Dwarf but I press on.

“It is best to have them do so. The veteran warriors can too easily become distracted by the newcomers, when the situation is dangerous. They feel a duty to protect them and they are not working as a seamless unit at first. It can lead to unnecessary casualties.” I tilt my head back to look at Gimli. “I assume that is why you did not accompany them. It may not have been your father’s decision but the commander’s need to have experienced and veteran comrades with him.” 

“Fili and Kili were not experienced veterans.” The muttered words are bitter. 

Those are names I know. “But were they of age?” I ask. 

A grunted “Yes,” comes from behind me. 

“And they were still casualties,” I say gently. “I know your father did not want that fate for you.”

He is silent for a time and the squirming lessens.

Until the terrain shifts again and Gimli nearly chokes me when he grips my tunic. 

“Sorry,” he mutters when he hears me cough and his grip lessens just enough for me to breathe freely again.

“Arod will not let you come to harm, Gimli.” I have lost count of how many times I have said this now. “Trust me on this.” 

“You cannot know that!” he repeats, just as he has every other time. 

I close my eyes and count again. 

“And ponies are not the same as horses, Legolas!” Gimli says into my silence. 

“I know that, Gimli. But not all ponies are as sensible and stalwart as our Bill was.” I sigh. We truly had not given poor Bill a good chance at all, leaving him by the doors of Moria.

Which reminds me. “Gimli, you had no issue riding Bill down the snowy trail at Caradhras and that was far more treacherous terrain than what we now face.”

“I was not as high off the ground with Bill and the baggage was far steadier than you!” he retorts. 

I cannot help but laugh and to my satisfaction he laughs with me. Somehow, I will make this stubborn Dwarf a skilled rider. I have no other option.

 

________________________________________________________

 

 

The sun is low in the sky and the forest close at hand when we finally find the Orcs.

The glade still smokes from the burning and the air is acrid and heavy in my lungs. The Orc carcasses are burned to ash but their weapons lie near, piled high, a grimacing goblin head impaled upon a stake set in front of the hoard. 

Aragorn drops to the ground and leads his horse to an earthen mound nearby; this must be where the fallen Riders have been buried. We leave the horses there and search the glade. The field of battle is a mass of mired footprints and hoof marks, trampled grass and blood-slicked turf. I find no traces of our Hobbits before night falls. 

Gimli shadows me, desolation etched into his features. “We can do no more this night. I fear the Orc pyre has mingled Hobbit bones in it. I wish it were not so. It will be hard news for Frodo and Bilbo to hear. I wish now we had heeded Elrond’s warning and sent them back to the Shire.” 

“Gandalf wanted them to come,” I say, frowning down at him. 

His eyes meet mine. “And Gandalf was the first lost to us.” 

Aragorn cuts in, his voice harsh from the bitter air. “None can foretell their end. I will not give up hope. I will stay and see what morning’s light brings forth.” 

Our words are few after this. I do not have the heart to speak. I need to get away from this foul air and so I drift closer to the dim forest, choosing finally a solitary chestnut tree. It is old and broad and will shelter us for the night.

The air is chill and Gimli shivers. “Let us light a fire, Aragorn. I am weary and chilled to the bone. If there are any Orcs, let them come. They can feel the bite of my axe but at least I will finally be warm.”

“It may draw the Hobbits to us, if they linger somewhere in these shadows,” I add. I get to my feet to gather wood. 

“The light may draw any manner of creatures,” Aragorn says. “For we are near to Saruman’s lands now. We are at the very edge of Fangorn forest and I would not touch that wood, no matter how cold the night gets—to do so is to court great peril, I have heard.” 

“The Riders felled many a tree, to burn the Orcs so readily,” Gimli retorts. 

“And then they rode away, not into the forest. Our path will likely take us into the depths of Fangorn itself. I would not cut any living wood.” 

“There is much to glean from around us,” Gimli says to Aragorn placatingly. He directs his next words to me. “Sit, lad. I have need to stretch my aching legs after that ride today. I will gather wood and tend to the fire.”

I nod at him but I am distracted. The wood is just beyond the shadows of our tree and even my eyes cannot pierce its depths in this gloom. There is something there that draws me, sounds just beyond my hearing. Something familiar yet not quite right.

I miss my home.

Lothlorien was soothing after our harrowing passage through the Mines of Moria. I was with Elven folk again, speaking my language, eating familiar food, hearing familiar voices and songs. I was among the trees again, trees that lived and breathed and spoke in their own voices. 

But this place . . . this place reminds me of home far more than Lothlorien ever did. It holds that mixture of living and sorrow that the Greenwood radiates. But there is something more, something I cannot delineate. Something I wish I could speak of to my father. 

I miss him too. 

I have tried not to think of him overmuch. We have never been parted for this long. My longest patrols were weeks at most and I have been away from my home for many months now.

The letter I sent him before we set out has gone perforce unanswered. Perhaps a missive awaits me in Rivendell—with orders to return home with haste, with reprimands for taking this chance with the Fellowship, with fervent warnings and advice from the one who has always strived to keep me safe. 

It is the first momentous decision in my long life that I have not discussed with him.

Our fire dwindles as the moon rises. Gimli fusses about the watch, demanding that he and Aragorn take their rightful turns and I finally relent because in truth I am tired. I will not sleep long but it would be good to rest and not perforce be watchful, as I have been these many nights. 

I make a show of agreeing, not letting him see how easily I acquiesce. Rolling my eyes as we draw lots, huffing when I see it is he who has drawn the first watch, peering about warily as I arrange my blanket on the grass below the branches of the tree.

He has grown dear to me, this grumpy Dwarf.

When the grief of Gandalf’s death weighed us down our Fellowship grew quiet and withdrawn. We each mourned him in our own fashion but Gimli’s way was of solitude and silence, much like my own. I had wished for Father then, for the solid comfort of his arms, the steady presence of him, the words he could always find to soothe my spirit. 

I had seen in Gimli’s sorrow an echo of my own and somehow Father’s words come to me: _a burden shared is always lighter_. Words said to me many a time, when I would stew and stomp and let my temper flare at others. It was how Father would persuade me to speak of what troubled me. 

Those were the very words that came to me when I approached Gimli, to ask him to walk with me and share my path, that night in Galadriel’s realm; surprising myself almost as much as I astonished him. 

But walk with me he did and we have not been the same since then. 

He is a puzzle, this Dwarf. Like an onion, Gimli has layers and I have only managed to peel back a few. Each one reveals unexpected depths. 

I watch him now, as he paces back and forth, rubbing his arms for warmth and grumbling under his breath. He knows that I can hear him and so he mumbles imprecations at Elves that won’t rest or eat properly. I snort and he turns to glare at me. 

“Will you not settle down, you flighty thing?” he says. 

“How can I when you are stomping and muttering like that,” I say. “You are keeping me awake with all your chatter. How do you manage to keep watch when you are the one making such a racket?” 

“Insolent sprite,” he mumbles but the grin he gives me belies his words. 

I trust him to watch over us so I lean back against the tree and let rest come to me.

 

_____________________________________________________

 

I should never have gone to sleep. It has been a night of frustration to us all. Our nocturnal visitor was likely Saruman himself. Of our horses there is still no sign. We wait for enough daylight to comb through the ravaged wreckage the Riders have left behind.

Daylight gifts us clues that Merry and Pippin have survived Eomer’s raid. Evidence that leads us directly into Fangorn forest. 

Aragorn breaks the silence. “My thought is that the forest appeared more hospitable to them than the carnage here. We must go into Fangorn, if we are to have any chance of finding them.” 

Gimli’s groan is in opposition to the stirring of my heart. There is something that calls to me in this forest. There are voices in the trees that I cannot quite catch, a scent that is unfamiliar yet intriguing. It draws me to it and I for one voice no objection to taking our search into Fangorn itself.

Footprints in the mud of the Entwash confirm Aragorn’s suspicions. Our hobbits have found shelter in these woods. We are now deeper in, the sunlight dimmed to a greenish tint, the canopy of trees above us blotting out the sky.

Gimli twitches his shoulders as he walks, his knuckles white as he grips his axe, eyes darting all around him suspiciously.

I respect his wariness but do not feel it in myself. This forest is old, old and gnarled and guarded. But I do not feel the malice that lurks in the southern reaches of my Greenwood. There is a watchful stillness here, as if the forest is holding its very breath at our encroachment.

I rest my hand against the nearest trunk and close my eyes. I had indulged in communion with the mallorns in Lothlorien, their green and gold entities soothing my soul. This bears no likeness to that sensation but neither is it the dark, brooding malice that overwhelms me in the twisted glades near Dol Guldur.

There is a hint, a vein of wrongness here, a discordant note among the music of the trees. But it is not sustained—I cannot follow it. It bears more grief than hatred.

There is anger in it as well.

I take a deep breath and the air is musty, mushrooms and damp the most strident scents. Green. Green overshadowed by gray. The sorrow here is palpable.

I am more curious than afraid.

“It does not feel evil,” I say, lifting my hand from the trunk. There is gray dust clinging to my fingertips. “But there is watchfulness, grief and resentment in this wood.”

“We have done nothing to anger it,” Gimli asserts.

“It is not directed at us. But it is all around. Can you not feel it?” I ask.

“It feels stuffy. As if I cannot catch my breath,” Gimli says. “Old and dusty. The sunlight filters through more readily than in your wood, Legolas, but still it feels dimmer and greyer. And oppressive. It weighs on me.”

His voice sounds odd and when I look at him closely I can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. His grip tightens further on his axe and his eyes dart around us, anxiety tensing in his every movement. 

Gimli is afraid.

 It is not something I have seen in him, but for those brief moments as we strove to escape Moria. But there is nothing that dreadful here. 

“It is not resentful against us, Gimli,” I say again. “I do not think the wood quite knows what to make of us,” I say slowly, turning around and looking up. The stillness is absolute—not a breath of air stirs the leaves, no trill of birdsong reaches our ears. A watchful wariness.

My words do not comfort him.

“You feel it watching us too, Legolas,” Gimli whispers, as he twists and turns in agitation.

“It is a venerable forest, Gimli,” Aragorn says, his voice smooth and soothing. “There are bound to be unseen creatures here that watch us from the trees. As long as we mean them no harm I am sure they will not harm us.”

His words do not have the desired effect. Gimli shakes his axe in distress. “I do not like being watched,” he rumbles. The wood seems to close in on us at his words, the stifling stillness making even me take in a breath. 

The trees seem closer to us, although how that has come to be I do not know. And then I catch sight of Gimli’s axe, slicing the air as he turns back and forth in his agitation.

His axe. Of course.

“Put down your axe, Gimli,” I whisper, sidling closer to him.

He glares at me in answer. I place my hand on his shoulder and bend to speak in his ear. “Your axe, Gimli. It makes the trees nervous to see such a weapon here.” 

His shocked expression and the alacrity with which he lowers his weapon might have made me laugh once upon a time. But he is so distraught that I would never consider doing so. 

I squeeze his shoulder. “The only use for that axe is the hewing of orc necks,” I say, pitching my voice to carry. My companions gape at me as if I have gone mad. “Many Orcs have felt the bite of our weapons—axe and sword and knives. And many will in time again.” I scowl at them both. Can they not see what I am doing? 

It is brighter now, the press of the trees less onerous around us. Gimli takes a deep breath, filling his lungs as if he has been holding his breath. Perhaps he has been. 

The air stirs slightly, leaves rustling above our heads. I grip Gimli’s shoulder again and give him a little shake. “It’s alright,” I say.

 He releases the death grip on his axe and lowers it. Aragorn lets out a sharp breath of his own and his hand moves away from the scabbard at his side. 

Despite Aragorn’s previously appeasing words it seems that Gimli is not the only one affected by the heaviness that surrounds us. It is not as dire and dangerous as they believe—this wood has been harmed, deeply harmed. But its menace is not directed at us; the vigilance most certainly is. 

I must convey that to them. The wood remains wary and watchful but much less so now that Gimli has restrained his axe. 

“This place is old. So very old.” I cannot help but laugh now, as the tension drains away from me. This place makes me feel as if I were an elfling again, exploring the great trees of the Greenwood with my father, feeling their might and strength around me. I feel small and young and lighter than I have in days. “This place is full of memories,” I say. “Such a weight of memory that I feel young again, as I have not since I began my travels with you children.” I press my hand against the bark of another tree. “I would be glad to tarry here, if we came in happier times.”

 “Trust a Wood Elf to find kinship with a moldy, old forest,” Gimli snorts. “But you comfort me with your words and your joy, Legolas. I dread this wood but your fearlessness relieves me. I will follow where you lead but keep your knives and bow at hand.” 

“I will take your word on this, Legolas. You comprehend what we cannot, when it comes to these trees.” Aragorn says. “Come then, the hobbits’ trail leads this way.” 

We move further in. My skin tingles as I open myself up to the Song. It is faint but steady, deep and green, sorrow and regret weaving through the melody with slender threads of molten red fury bursting through. Echoes of its greatness filter through, a memory of when it covered vast swathes of land, when it grew and spread and flourished. Even though the trees are aged there is a hum of energy here, of growth and vitality that seems incongruous with their appearance. 

I must know more of this. 

This is what is missing in the Greenwood. This vitality, this thrumming undercurrent of energy. This forest is fighting back at what afflicts it. It is not bowing under the assault—it thrives despite it and I must know how it does this.  
  
I need to find its source.

But not now.

I have fallen behind my companions. Aragorn turns back to look at me, one eyebrow raised in question. “Are you done communing with the trees, Legolas?” he asks. The roguish glint in his eyes gives me joy.

Our hobbits are alive and Aragorn has found his hope again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks also to cheekybeak for her patient and helpful beta readings!


End file.
